I’ve always been rather low-key when dealing with holidays. For instance, in the winter, I prefer the soft warm glow of a Christmas Eve luminaria display over a month of electric glare.
But I didn’t expect the whammy that this year brought—even before Thanksgiving. Last year, my loss was fresh, still front-and-center in my attention. And I was in a grief group. We had few expectations beyond acknowledging the holes in our lives, and any rituals we wanted to incorporate.
In this second year, my attention has moved outward—somewhat. I took two trips. I worked on the opus. I contemplated the future.
And then (as noted in my previous blog), my manuscript went to a copyeditor. My last anchor was gone. Ignoring other projects I went AWOL. Why?
Something was nagging at me that I didn’t want to pay attention to.
Two years ago, Wayne was visibly declining during our last Thanksgiving and our last Christmas. The coming holidays loomed. It took weeks to recognize that by escape reading and DVDs, I had cut out everything but meals, dog care, and any unwelcome demands on my calendar.
Mention of an early Friday morning meditation group caught my ear. My mind went ping! and I set an intention to join them.
Experts all agree that meditation is healthy. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. That’s why I prefer sitting in a group, where expectations hold me in place. After fifty minutes of silence (in two 25 minute segments), I felt awake, alert, ready to face the day’s needs.
Since then, I’ve taken a few minutes to sit in silence each morning, feet anchored on the floor, back straight, while I tell myself to be mindful during the day. Five minutes fly past, and I get up to do my PT.
It is what it is.
Understand—it’s not comfortable paying attention to old sorrows—but if I willingly enter into my feelings, they fade. They’ll return again, but experiencing those waves of sadness are preferable to shutting out the whole world just to avoid them. I need people and grounding in reality.
We’re not all alike. There are many kinds of avoidance. For instance, the hero of my sci fi novels throws himself into work. I will always enjoy escaping into fictional worlds, but within limits. I don’t need to do so at an addiction level.
How do you handle your losses and grief?
Kate Harrington 